


Angels Are Watching Over You

by neenapee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coughing, Fever, M/M, Sick Character, Sick Dean Winchester, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:14:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25542688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neenapee/pseuds/neenapee
Summary: It's just a headache for Dean, right? I mean, Dean Winchester doesn't get sick(not really, anyway)
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 69





	Angels Are Watching Over You

A cold can of beer to the head isn’t doing anything. Neither is a greasy burger or a steaming hot shower. None of Dean’s tried and true, 100% not doctor approved headache remedies are doing a thing. After lounging in his bed all day, trying to chase away the headache with horror movies and cans of old beer from under his bed, Dean figures it’s time to try a remedy that’s, as Sam would say, “not incredibly detrimental to his health.” 

His bones ache as he sits up, and the hole-peppered bathrobe he always throws on during his days off falls off around his shoulders. His nose is running like a faucet and he sniffs, wiping it on his sleeve before slipping his feet into a pair of old slippers he had found in some closet he had stumbled across in the bunker. The air around him is icy, but one sweep around the room with his EMF detector confirms that there is no ghost; only his dumbass brother who had forgotten to turn the heat on before he had left. 

The hallway is just as cold as his room and he draws his robe tighter around his body, coughing harshly into the sleeve. He hasn’t run into Sam or Cas yet and even though the bunker is seemingly devoid of life, there’s a ringing in his ear that he just can’t seem to shake. He takes another sip of his beer as he walks. His head might be pounding, but at least he’s got something to wash out the ache with. He chokes the beer down and his throat burns in a way it doesn’t usually. He’s had plenty of sore throats; from dusty basements and burning buildings, but this ache is deeper, starting in the root of his throat and making its way up, almost as if it started in his stomach. He massages it as he walks, wincing and coughing a bit more. He must have swallowed something the wrong way. Yeah, that’s it.

The ringing in his ear continues as he steps into his kitchen, an incessant buzzing that makes him want to bash his head against the wall. Their hunt yesterday hadn’t been vigorous, just a vamp nest a couple of miles outside of town. He and Sam had been back before sundown, giving him a chance to turn in early and dream of girls in bikinis bringing him beer. So why does he feel so rundown, as if he could collapse at any minute and sleep on the floor? He doesn’t usually feel like this, not even after their bigger hunts that flay him within an inch of his life. He grabs onto the wall to keep himself from falling before picking himself up, clearing his throat and adjusting his robe. He is Dean Freaking Winchester, and he will not fall victim to whatever aches and chills seem to have taken up residence in his body. Although he could use a nap. 

Sam keeps ibuprofen in the kitchen cupboard, for whenever he hurts his ankle on one of those stupid runs he’s always going on. (We hunt monsters, Dean always says. You can deal with a stupid hurt ankle without medicine. But Sam never listens, and he always complains.) But now, with this incessant headache that doesn’t seem to go away no matter what Dean does, he can’t help but be grateful that his brother can’t fix a hurt ankle with the medicine their dad taught them about; a good old smack. 

He’s measuring out three, four, okay maybe five ibuprofen when he hears footsteps. His fight or flight is activated and he’s slapping the cap back on the bottle, slinging it back onto the shelf before whoever is coming gets into the kitchen. If Sam catches him taking medicine after Dean spent twenty minutes ridiculing him for it, Dean would never hear the end of it. But it’s just Cas, looking as much like a lost puppy as ever. “Hello, Dean.” 

“Hey,” Dean says. His voice is hoarser than he remembers and he winces, clearing his throat. It didn’t sound like that the last time he had spoken to someone, although that was- how many hours ago? He had gotten into bed right after their hunt, skipping dinner and passing out after a couple of warm beers and bad tv. The only reason he had eaten that day was that Sam had brought him something; had he really done so little all day? 

“What are those?” Cas asks, squinting, and moving closer. 

“What are whats?” Dean asks, moving to cover the ibuprofen tablets scattered across the countertop. He doesn’t want Cas’s help with this headache. He’s grown tired of Cas’s angel mojo and as much as it might be nice to just zap away a headache, he needs to deal with it the old fashioned way, with a handful of pills and a cold beer can to the forehead. 

“Those things on the counter. Pills. Are they viagra?” 

“What- how did you even find out about those?” 

“From an ad on TV,” Cas says. “You had already fallen asleep, and I was still watching, and I saw an ad where a very nice couple promoted them. So, is that not what they are?” 

“No, Cas, they’re ibuprofen,” Dean says. He sighs. He didn’t want to end up talking about viagra with his friend today but that seems to be the direction the day is going in. 

Cas frowns, cocking his head. “Those things that Sam takes when his ankle hurts? Does your ankle hurt?” 

“You’ve been on Earth for what- eight years?” Dean says. “Nine? And you still don’t know what ibuprofen does?” 

“I’m an angel, Dean, angels don’t need to take pills,” Cas says. “So no, I still don’t know what ibuprofen does. But please, enlighten me.” 

“They’re for headaches,” Dean says. “And, like, being sick and stuff. And like pain. And stuff.” Dean’s been on Earth for almost forty years, and even he still isn’t sure what ibuprofen does. Maybe he isn’t in any position to be judging Cas. 

“So are you sick?” Cas asks. “Because that would make sense. Sam said you were looking a little sick before he went to go meet up with Jody.” Sam had gone to meet up with Jody? Without him? It stings a bit, he can’t lie.

“What? Why are you talking to Sam about me?” 

“I think you’re missing the point, Dean. Are you sick?” 

“I-” His head throbs, and he hides a cough inside of his robe. After vamps, demons, angels; after fighting everything that could possibly hurt, torture, or kill him, it’s a stupid cold that’s bringing him down.

“Maybe,” Dean says. His throat is raw as he talks. “I think so. Just a little.” He takes a shaky breath and the shield that he’s been carrying since his mom died thumps to the floor, leaving him sweaty, shaky, and more vulnerable than ever. 

“What can I do?” 

“What?” 

“What can I do,” Cas says again. “To help.” 

“I really don’t need any help,” Dean says, scrubbing his forehead. He doesn’t want Cas’s angel mojo; every time he’s healed with a touch to the forehead it almost feels like cheating. Like he’s straying further and further from being truly human with each healed wrist or cut. “It’s really nothing. Just a cold.” 

“If it’s nothing, then why are you taking medicine? Dean, I may not know much about human illnesses, but I know that you don’t take medicine when it’s ‘nothing.’ Should I call Sam, ask him for advice, or-” 

“Jeez, Cas, calm down,” Dean says. The headache is building, like a wall in his head that blocks his train of thoughts, anything rational or level-headed that he could otherwise be thinking. He feels dizzy, and a bit like he’s floating. “Sam really doesn’t need to know about this. He’ll freak out because he’s Sam, and he’ll be on the road before you get off the phone. Nah, let him enjoy his visit with Jody.” 

“So how can I help?” Cas asks. He tilts his head, looking at Dean as if he’s a science project instead of a living, breathing, human being. Part of Dean wishes he doesn’t have an angel in charge of looking after his cold/flu/whatever he’s managed to come down with, but at least he cares. Which is more than Dean can say for some people when Dean would catch whatever bug was flying around school when he was younger, get told to suck it up and get on the hunt with his dad. He swallows hard, even though it makes his throat throb. At least Cas cares, he reminds himself. 

“Soup,” he says after a period of painful reflection. “My mom, when I was a kid, she’d make this chicken noodle soup. You know, she couldn’t cook worth a damn, but I remember that soup tasting like heaven.” At the time it tasted like heaven. But after going to heaven, Dean would imagine that a slice of heaven would taste like motor grease and soggy bread. No, thinking back on it, his mom’s chicken noodle soup tasted like the best thing in the world. 

“Excellent,” Cas says. “I’ll, uh, I’ll make you some soup.” Dean has never seen Cas cook, but at least it’ll be entertaining, to watch him bumble around the kitchen. “In the meantime, why don’t you sit down. That’s what sick people are supposed to do, right?” 

“I’m not dying, it’s just a cold,” Dean gripes, but draws out a seat and sits down hard. It’s just a cold. Well, maybe a flu. But a mild one at best. 

“Well, you should still sit,” Cas says. “I saw your legs shaking.” 

“That’s-” 

“It isn’t normal, and you can’t try to convince me otherwise, because a very nice website I read said it could be a symptom of cancer,” Cas says. He pulls out his phone, fumbling to type something in the search bar. When Dean spots a hazy recipe for chicken noodle soup, he feels a fuzzy warmth bloom from his heart. “You don’t have cancer, do you?” 

“No, Cas, just a cold,” Dean says. He feels the tug of exhaustion in his eyes. He’s been through 48 hours of straight hunting, long nights spent awake tossing and turning in worry, being tortured for what felt like decades in Hell itself, and it’s a stupid, stupid cold that’s finally bringing him down. Ok, maybe it’s more like a flu, but until he’s passing out or projectile vomiting all over the bunker, he can pretend it’s just a cold. 

“Whatever you say, Dean.” Cas has apparently checked out, turning his attention to pouring out the right amount of chicken broth into a measuring cup, chopping up tiny pieces of rotisserie chicken that Sam tried to hide at the back of the fridge for his ‘healthy meals,’ whatever that’s supposed to mean. Dean rests his head on his arms, letting the world fade in and out of focus around him. Cas hums when he cooks. His mom used to hum when she cooked. And if Dean shuts out the rest of the world, he can almost imagine he’s three again, listening to his mom while she cooked.

When Cas is finished with the soup, he turns around, proud to show off his creation. The process hadn’t been easy, and sure, there had been some divine intervention as he waited for the soup to get hot, but in his hands is a bowl of soup, made(mostly) by nothing more than hard work and dedication. But Dean is out cold, head nestled on his arms. Cas takes a seat next to him, setting the steaming bowl of soup out in front of them. A quick touch to Dean’s head finds his skin on fire, and his face drips with sweat, different to the sweat that crops up during an intense hunt, or when Sam finishes a run. This sweat runs down his face like a teardrop and based on the way Dean shivers even underneath his robe, Cas knows that the heat radiating off of him is not normal. “Dean,” Cas whispers, nudging his shoulder. “The soup is ready.” Dean groans, turns his head to face away from Cas. “Dean?” 

“‘m sleeping,” Dean says. His voice is thick with congestion and it catches on the final syllable of his sentence, sending him into a half-covered coughing fit before snoring ensues. Cas almost wishes when he interacted solely with angels, and all he did was follow directions, without having to worry about ailing friends or how in the world he’s supposed to take care of a sick human. 

As he’s done with most things human-related, he turns to the internet for answers. The soup gets cold next to him, and although Cas knows he can just reheat it in the bunker’s microwave, as he’s seen Dean do with frozen mozzarella sticks and leftover fries from diners. But he feels his heart sink as he watches his hard work go cold in front of him, but deep down, he knows that isn’t the most important thing he has to worry about. As Dean snores next to him, body brimming with fever(a new term Cas has discovered in his research), he skims through articles, on a website called WikiHow that, apparently, is world-renowned for its information. Cas sweeps Dean’s sleeping frame up and down, his eyes stopping to linger on his tattered bathrobe and the uncomfortable chair that Dean is nearly slipping out of. According to the WikiHow, Dean is in the worst possible spot he could be.

“Dean,” Cas says again, this time louder. He shakes Dean’s shoulder, and Cas is met with a groan. “Come on. I think you need to get back in bed.” 

“What I need is a greasy burger and a chocolate shake,” Dean says. His words are slurred, and his eyes are still closed. “Works every time. Jus’ a cold, Cas.” He coughs again. It sounds like there’s something lodged in his throat, and Cas feels a pang in his chest thinking about everything that makes the Winchesters so utterly human. 

“Not this time, Dean, come on.” His tone is harsher this time and with another shoulder poke, Dean is standing, shaky on his feet and leaning on Cas. “Come on, Dean. Back to bed.” Dean starts to stumble out of the kitchen and, picking up the quickly cooling bowl of soup, follows Dean through the long, narrow hallways of the bunker. 

Dean collapses onto his bed the first chance he gets. One thing Cas has learned about illness, not through the internet or the WikiHow but through his own observations, is that it tends to make people more vulnerable, weaker than their natural state. Six feet of pure, powerful hunter turns to a half-delirious man currently talking to the woman on the front of his porn magazine, and Cas finds the switch in character more shocking than most he’s seen, which is saying something. “Dean, you should rest,” Cas says, setting down the soup. It’s colder now, but the way Dean is acting, he won’t be eating anytime soon, anyway. “You’re, ah, damp.” Cas wipes the sweat from Dean’s arm off on his coat. 

Dean turns to face Cas and his wide eyes, the ones that have seen so much pain and suffering, so much of the supernatural, are only now filled with fear. “You won’t leave me, right, Cas?” Dean says. His eyes are glazed. Cas wonders if that’s a side effect of whatever illness Dean’s body is trying to battle off. “Right, Cas?” His voice is more insistent the second time around, and even though Dean couldn’t take him in a fight on a normal day, let alone while plagued with illness, Cas feels himself shrink. 

“No,” Cas says, taking a seat next to Dean’s bed. “I’ll stay with you. If that’s alright, I mean.” Dean likes his room to be his room. Cas and Sam aren’t allowed inside without Dean’s permission and the prospect of Dean willingly let someone watch him sleep is almost unthinkable. But Dean nods, slinks underneath his covers, lets his breathing slow. 

“Thanks for the soup, by the way,” Dean says, just as it looks like he’s about to fall asleep. “‘m sure it tastes great.” 

Cas’s face brightens. “You’re welcome,” he says, but he isn’t even sure Dean heard him because, by the time the words leave his lips, Dean’s eyes are fully closed. Cas settles back into his chair, the old rocker creaking underneath him. Whatever is ailing Dean clearly won’t be gone in a day, but Cas will be there for his friend, every step of the way.

Dean’s fever dreams are eclectic, ranging from hot girls in bikinis to Sam dying in his arms to mermaids dancing ballet in the middle of the bunker. But throughout all of the dreams, the feverish hues, and the panicky feelings, one sentence rings throughout all of them. Something his mother used to say to him, long ago; angels are watching over you.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, hope you liked it! Check out my Tumblr for more(@siickdays)


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